


Five Scenes From Bleak House That Dickens Might As Well Have Written

by bethfrish



Category: Bleak House - Charles Dickens
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-20
Updated: 2005-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victorian innuendo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Scenes From Bleak House That Dickens Might As Well Have Written

**1\. In Times of Stress**

It is mid-day in the neighborhood of Chancery Lane, and Mr. Weevle is on the brink of forgetting all the niceties and comforts of sleep. He rests his head in the crook of his left arm, leaning against the counter of the Sol's Arms, which he believes—if his self-diagnosed sleep deprivation has not completely inhibited his ability to think straight—he has been in and out of fourteen times since the sun has risen. To his right, a young man of the name of Guppy scribbles painfully on a tiny square of tissue-paper, blinking in a strangely obvious and deliberate manner, as if he somehow doubts what is directly in front of him. 

"My fingers have quit on me, Tony," says Mr. Guppy to his friend, bending his wrist tenderly, as though it might crack clean off if mistreated. "And my eyes as well. Are you there, Tony?" he asks when his friend to the left gives no response. "I thought you were next to me, though my eye is twitching slightly (quite disturbing!) and it would fail to surprise me if my vision had quit all together." 

"Oh, I'm here!" Mr. Weevle answers sharply. "Entirely too long, I think. And must you speak so damnably loud? My head throbs in a way that I've never experienced, and the last thing it needs is your voice in its ears." 

Mr. Guppy waves away the hundred and twelfth spectator of the day and turns inward towards Mr. Weevle. No, no more retelling. He is done for the day. Perhaps tomorrow, when his wrist stops throbbing and his eyes cease to water, when he has gone home and renewed the vow between head and pillow, then perhaps he might be inclined to relive the previous night. But till then, go away! Krook will still be dead tomorrow! 

"I was not speaking loudly at all," says Mr. Guppy with some concern, noticing his friend's pallid color. "Why, Tony! You look horrid!" Tony looks at him in a way that is most horrid indeed. "It's about time we left anyway." 

"Is it now?" asks Mr. Weevle darkly. "My concept of time left me some eight hours ago. Can we go?" 

"We can," Guppy replies. 

They leave the Sol's Arms, blinking—Guppy blinks, Weevle squints—at the sunlight that has already begun to gravitate towards the horizon. Chancery Lane is abuzz with rumors. Rumors mostly true and rumors sullied by skeptics who think that spontaneous combustion is not a legitimate cause of death. If only they had spent last night with these two gentlemen. Krook—or what once was Krook—charred, burnt, obliterated, on the floor of his own quarters, rendering the false rumors unbelievably more believable than the truth. 

"I dare say, Tony," says Mr. Guppy as they walk aimlessly about the streets. "I could quite do with some sleep. How about you?" 

"Verily," replies Tony, veering off course and bumping elbows with his companion. 

"Could we, say," begins Mr. Guppy casually, "head back to your place for a quick lie-down?" 

Mr. Weevle stops walking, but not before bumping elbows again, and gives Mr. Guppy a wide, blood-shot stare. "If you think I'm going back there! We've already discussed this!" 

"I suppose we did," returns Mr. Guppy. "But I have some business which needs attending to later in the evening, and my rooms are so much farther away than yours—which are right here! An hour is all I need. Something to—hmm—clear my head from generous gifts the fine patrons of the Sol's Arms have been pouring for us all afternoon." 

"William Guppy, I will absolutely not go back there!" Mr. Weevle tells his friend decisively, even as they turn back down the street where he has only recently taken up residency. They argue back and forth as they walk, no-yes-no-well you have a point but still, until Mr. Weevle, quite tired, lifts his head to find that he is standing in the shadow of Krook's Rag and Bone Shop. He opens his mouth, exasperated, and shuts it again when no sound comes out. 

"How uncanny," says Mr. Guppy. "Look where we are. I must not have been paying attention to our route; my eyesight is a bit cloudy at the moment—isn't yours, Tony?" 

"Such a friend," replies Tony grimly, "to enquire about my eyesight." 

Mr. Guppy looks ahead at the door, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other in a sort of sleepy innocence. He's about to suggest they go inside—because they might as well at this point—when Mr. Weevle pushes past him and grabs the handle to the door himself. Weaving through the corridor and up the stairs, Mr. Weevle making a truly admirable effort to avert his eyes as they pass Krook's rooms, cleared out and locked up, at least for the time being. When they shut the door behind them, they are relieved to find that the smell has dissipated and the soot has settled; though neither is particularly inclined to inspect the windowsill quite yet. 

"William, I absolutely refuse to live here a day further," Tony informs his companion, and collapses into a chair—not before giving it a suspicious once-over, of course—as if his legs have gone unaccountably numb. 

Mr. Guppy paces back and forth in the space behind him. His gaze continues to wander towards Mr. Weevle's bed, one moment full of longing, the next scanning warily for any lingering traces of oily substances that might have settled on the covers. Second thoughts at such an inopportune moment, surfacing through a haze of exhaustion; Mr. Guppy is torn. 

"I think I shall die from fatigue," says Mr. Weevle, resting his elbows upon the tabletop. 

"Then lie down, why don't you?" asks Mr. Guppy. "Your bed,"—he says _bed_ as if the word has a vaguely sour taste—"is right there." 

Mr. Weevle peers at said item of furniture disdainfully out of the corner of his eye (vision now restored) and shakes his head vehemently. "That bed is by the window, where—where that oil was found. I'd sooner sleep in the street!" 

"Tony!" cries Mr. Guppy, moving behind his chair. "Sit down, Tony!" (Tony has risen from his seat in a jittery state of nerves.) Mr. Guppy places his hands on Tony's shoulders, and, noticing their slight trembling, gives a friendly squeeze. "We'll have the place cleaned, polished!" In place of running his finger over the grime on the windowsill to illustrate his point, he gives another squeeze. "You'll see, it'll be livable once more!" 

"Do that again," says Mr. Weevle wearily. 

"What again? Have the place cleaned? (Assuming that the grime will come off.)" A shudder. 

"No," says Mr. Weevle, leaning back in his chair and letting his weary hands fall into his lap. "The shoulders. It's the first useful thing you've done all day." 

"What a tone to use for requesting favors," chastises Mr. Guppy, giving Mr. Weevle's rigid shoulders a few pulses with his fingertips. Tony mumbles something that might be an apology—William Guppy takes it as one, in any case—and lifts his shoulders into Guppy's steadily kneading palms. 

"Nnnggh," Weevle mumbles, or what comes out as "Nnnggh." 

Mr. Guppy clears his throat awkwardly and kneads with noticeably less vigor than just a moment before. "Am I to take it that your interest in this affair is still renounced?" he asks, the silence beginning to disturb him slightly. "Ah—that is to say, the affair of the business with Krook?" 

"As renounced as it was an hour ago. Lower, if you would, and just to the left." 

"Of—of course," says Mr. Guppy, rubbing carefully at a knot in the back of Tony's neck. "If you're sure then." 

"Mmm, about what?" 

"Tony, are you even listening?" 

Mr. Weevle gives something of a small moan and responds, "Not entirely, Guppy. Not entirely. It's just that your hands. God in Heaven, where did you learn to massage a person's shoulders like that? It's a gift, I tell you. And rather distracting." Mr. Weevle groans again. 

"Ah—yes, distracting," says Mr. Guppy, taking away his hands abruptly. "Too distracting, I should say. I'll stop then. Yes, best that I stop," he repeats to himself. 

"No, Guppy!" says Tony, turning in his chair quickly. "For once stick to something you're good at! Rather than chasing after women who never—" 

"Wounded!" cries Mr. Guppy. "Wounded down to the core. And deeper still because it's a friend." 

Mr. Weevle looks up at Mr. Guppy apologetically. "Oh dear, I didn't mean it! (What a thing to say)," he says to his lap. "Please forgive me, Guppy. It's just that your handiwork—excuse the pun—was a pleasant relief after such a stressful night. Please continue," implores Mr. Weevle, pointing his chin at Mr. Guppy's clenched fists. 

Mr. Guppy hesitantly replaces his hands on Weevle's shoulders, only to pull them away almost immediately when the recipient heaves a sigh that is all at once deep, breathy, and entirely too pleased. In one-point-five seconds flat, Guppy is across the room, seated on Mr. Weevle's bed with his legs crossed awkwardly. 

"What—are you still offended?" asks Mr. Weevle with a hint of disappointment. "I said I was sorry. Sensitive subject matter, I know. I promise never to mention it again." 

"Oh, no," says Mr. Guppy, resting his elbow on his knees and his chin on his fist. "I've forgiven you for that. No, I—I am just tired. Nothing more." 

"Oh, but you're sitting on that hideous bed, with traces of who knows what still on it," Mr. Weevle says with a plainly disgusted look on his face. 

Mr. Guppy looks down at the coverlet and cringes. "Yes. But I think I shall sit here for a while just the same." 

Mr. Weevle gives a shrug and begins to read yesterday's paper, while Mr. Guppy shifts on the bed awkwardly, keeping his legs crossed the entire time. 

  
  
  
  


**2\. An Afternoon's Joy**

It's summer in Lincolnshire, and the sun's light is shining even from beyond the translucent edges of the cumulus-white which drifts across the sky in turns, framed by a pure, vibrant blue like no other shade found in the natural world. At the side of this house in Lincolnshire there is a garden, cluttered by a rainbow-splash spectrum of flowers taking root here and there, almost to the point of being overgrown. There lies a violet nestled among the lilies, a tulip in the daisies. How they came to be so misplaced not even the original gardener knows. Is there an order to the chaos? All we can say for sure is that the piercing rays from the light above, filtered through stems and stalks, and the wings of worker bees gathering pollen to bring back to the hive, creates such a magnificent portrait along the side of the house that one flash of white in a sea of red only succeeds in making it all the more glorious. 

Along the perimeter of Lincolnshire's own neglected Eden is a stone wall, built so long ago that it has taken on the appearance of having grown along with the plants; moss nestled in place of mortar, vines twisting along its northern face as if to express their genial acceptance of an adopted son. Trees of all widths and heights, and bearing all types and variations of fruit line the walk and spot the grass. Apples and cherries put dents in the earth where they've fallen, flattening the grass under their weight until some small critter arrives and carries them away. Bushes and berries bump into one another, tangling their branches in the space they have to share, so that the patch of dirt beneath the dispute is a graveyard of gooseberries and raspberries, raspberries and blueberries, gleaming red and wet where they have broken free from their stems. 

And whose house does this haven of nature, this accidental, incidental beauty belong to? Why, it's Mr. Boythorn's, neighbor of Sir Leicester Dedlock of Chesney Wold, bitter rival and disputer of property; not at all unlike the clash of branches that knock each other's berries from their stems. Mr. Boythorn can often be seen in his yard, plucking a peach from the ground and taking a defiant bite as he glares beyond the wall at Sir Arrogant Numskull's grass, "Not all that greener on the other side, if you want my opinion," muttered to the disinterested squirrel that runs off with a strawberry. 

But Mr. Boythorn is not among the fruits and flowers on this sunny Sunday afternoon. His precise location cannot be determined—somewhere in the depths of the house, entertaining one Jarndyce and Skimpole, it would seem. But that is not where our attentions lie at the present moment, for the yard is not yet empty. 

Two young ladies, of similar age and comparable radiance, are seated among the blades of Boythorn's wild grass, their skirts spread out before and behind them as they kneel between the folds. One has waves of golden tresses, held away from blue eyes that rival the sky with a rippling stream of yellow ribbons. A stunted lily resides behind one ear, plucked from the root of its tiny stem, and broken off so that it may be perfectly tucked into her hair. Looking closer, the young lady cannot be more than eighteen. Her skin is flawless, her teeth perfect, her hands small and feminine. Her hair shines in the sunlight as the breeze whips the ribbons—the same pale yellow as her dress—through her curls. 

Across from her sits a woman of similar age, older perhaps by a few years, with a sort of understated beauty that she attempts to hide with a hand in front of her face as she laughs through her fingers. Her hair is darker than her companion's, her eyes a soft and comforting shade of brown. While she is not beautiful, she is her own unique brand of pretty, alight under the sun's warm rays as she looks upon the other girl with a smile of the utmost affection. 

Ada and Esther, respectively, are their names; ward of Jarndyce and Jarndyce and ward of Mr. Jarndyce (who wishes to have nothing to do with the former that bears his name). Vacationing from their ordinary residence, they flourish in the greenery of their host Mr. Boythorn's luscious and overgrown garden on this lazy day of summer, picking flowers and tasting fruit and resting in the grass to gaze up at the sky. 

Ada reaches next to her and retrieves a basket full of raspberries that she has picked from one of Mr. Boythorn's bushes. The bush itself is only a few feet out of reach, but it is the novelty of berry picking that makes the experience, and Ada giggles as she drops one into her mouth, licking the juice from her fingers. 

Esther leans forward so that their foreheads are close to touching, and speaks softly, taking one of Ada's hands in her own. Ada looks down at where Esther's hand is on hers and twines their fingers together, smiling a perfect flash of white as she squeezes. The tender wind blows a lock of Ada's hair against Esther's cheek, and Esther takes it between her fingertips before it whips back around the other way, tucking the feather-soft strands between the gentle curve of the other girl's ear. 

The sit like this, together, for minutes that seem like hours that seem like days, growing brighter themselves with each passing moment as the sun beats down upon their heads and shoulders like a welcome intruder on this private conference. 

Ada reaches into the basket and comes out with a handful of raspberries, ripe and deep red in color. She takes one between two of her fingers, taking care not to squeeze the juice out prematurely, and brings it to her mouth, pushing the fruit through a tiny 'o' she makes with her lips. At the eighth berry her lips are stained red, and so prettily too that Esther has to think twice before reaching over to smudge a seed off of the corner of her mouth. Ada brings her hand to her face self-consciously at the gesture, but then laughs and draws Esther's fingertips to her lips. 

Esther blushes at this, a mature, womanly blush that comes not from bashfulness, but from deep affection and merriment. She slips her arm around Ada's waist, pulling them closer together as Ada gently moves her lips around the tip of Esther's finger, gliding lower until she is able to press a kiss against the palm of her hand. 

A cloud passes in front of the sun, pushing against the light until it is all at once blocked out, but Esther and Ada pay it no attention; the light each one inspires in the other's eyes is enough to last an entire summer of weekends in the country. Esther, merely pretty in her own right, becomes radiant under the tender gaze of her darling. Don't look to the grass, sweet Helen of this summer's Sunday! If she could see herself as the breeze plays with her hair and ruffles her skirts, she would realize all of which she cheats herself. 

Ada, having relinquished Esther's hand, leans forward and brushes a kiss across the very corner of her mouth, and whispers something—Esther alone knows what—against the skin. 

In the house a shadow crosses past the window, retracing its steps and coming to a stop before the view of the garden. It's Mr. Boythorn, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He watches silently as the girls settle into the grass, one resting her head on the other's chest while the other combs her hand through her hair. Mr. Boythorn remembers a time when he used to fall asleep in the grass, moist with dew or dry from drought. He remembers the smell of her hair, the curve of her shoulders, and—the cloud passes on its way, the sun is shining once more—that they could not have looked half as content as the earthbound angels that rest there now. 

  
  
  
  


**3\. Evening Tea**

It's just after sunset at the place in Lincolnshire, but the Dedlocks that retire there for the evening are not those of the present. While the Dedlocks of the past watch as the dust settles upon their picture-frames, Lady Dedlock watches from her chair in the house in town as the dust settles upon the window sill. 

Sir Leicester has fallen asleep under his book in the library, leaving Lady Dedlock to dine alone in her room, watching the sky outside her window turn gray as the sun retreats for the evening. Upon finishing her supper, Mercury has the dishes removed and Lady Dedlock rises from her chair. 

The house in town is quiet, though she knows that somewhere, making less noise than her dozing husband, Mr. Tulkinghorn is lurking about, watching and listening. He says nothing and reveals nothing, but is always there, standing in some doorway or reading in some chair, learning secrets that no one would think are even secrets at all and locking them away safe within himself. 

Lady Dedlock has been aware of a change lately; that his eyes seem to follow her when they're in the room together, and even more so when they aren't. His suspicion coats her like a veil made of stiff gauze, wrapped around so tightly that she's convinced he can hear it shift from the next room over. 

She feels his dull eyes on her at all times now, as dull as his rusty waistcoat and rusty shoes and rusty breeches. There is nothing about Mr. Tulkinghorn that emanates light; instead he seems to absorb it. Lady Dedlock feels as though he has rubbed some of his rust off on her, so that she squeaks when she moves, begging for his penetrating stare at the slightest sound. 

Upon rising from her chair, Lady Dedlock moves into the sitting room for a different view of the passive gray that has now overtaken the sky. She has been sitting alone with her thoughts not five minutes when she realizes that Mr. Tulkinghorn is in the doorway behind her. She recalls hearing no footsteps; in fact, the only thing that gives him away is the deliberate cough that rasps quietly in the silence. 

"My Lady, may I join you?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn after making his presence clear. 

Lady Dedlock gives the slightest of nods, knowing that the question itself is only a formality. He takes a seat across from her at the table, at which point Mercury enters the room with a tray of tea and warm rolls. 

"I rang for some refreshments before coming up," says Mr. Tulkinghorn as the powdered head bows and makes its exit. 

"How thoughtful," returns Lady Dedlock. She shifts only to take cup and saucer in hand, afterwards sitting back to resume the figure of marble-carved beauty she was before his interruption. 

"And how does this evening find you, my Lady?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn evenly, successfully maintaining an air of polite disinterest as he reaches for a warm roll. 

Lady Dedlock follows the movement of his hand as he takes the knife from the table and runs his thumb over the handle. "As well as can be expected," she answers just as evenly. (Thumb now testing the blade.) 

"Only that well?" asks the lawyer, crossing his rusty legs beneath the tiny floral-patterned dish while somehow keeping his air of imperturbable dignity. The roll still steaming, Mr. Tulkinghorn points the sharp tip of the knife inward at its crisp, flaky exterior. 

"Only that well," my Lady replies coolly. She does not ask the same of him, for she wishes to dispense with as many of the trivialities of conversation as possible. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, however, continues to come up with new trivialities, each one more inane than its predecessor; he comments on the weather ("Too humid," from Lady Dedlock), Parties Coodle and Doodle and the all but forgotten Foodle Faction. He even notes the flora adorning the edge of his dish with a tiny tilt of his head. "Lilacs?" 

Lady Dedlock tightens her lips into a thin line, steadying her teacup and saucer on the delicate curve of one knee. "Is there something you needed, sir? Surely you didn't come to discuss the plates." 

"I was just being polite, my Lady. Am I not allowed to visit with my client?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn, uncrossing his legs. Without warning, he takes his knife and plunges it, with a sort of violent satisfaction, into the side of his roll. "I believe the identity of that lodger is still being investigated," he says idly. 

"What lodger?" 

"That one of Krook's. Overdosed on opium, if I recall," answers Mr. Tulkinghorn. 

"Oh. What of him?" 

"Nothing. Only that his identity is still being investigated and that some letters—personal items, I believe—have been uncovered. Love letters, it would seem. How very tragic, don't you agree? That this man should have a lover somewhere. Does she know of his death? I should say, I'd want to, were I her!" 

While Mr. Tulkinghorn has been speaking, Lady Dedlock has been staring at his hands—she can only assume preparing the bread for its butter. The rolls have been freshly brought up by Mercury just now, soft and crisp, and while a single well-placed cut would suffice even for those who are less than adept at using eating utensils, Mr. Tulkinghorn is sawing away at it very slowly, the teeth of the knife scraping at the soft, warm interior. He has all but cut through to the other side, yet he persists in this sawing motion, in and out, in and out, until the blade is accomplishing nothing more than a rhythmic rubbing against the inside, sending the occasional crumb bouncing off the lilacs. 

Lady Dedlock draws her eyes away from the scene going on in Mr. Tulkinghorn's lap and sips her tea. "Why do you tell me all this? It is none of my concern," she says carelessly. 

"Just sharing, my Lady. Just sharing," replies Mr. Tulkinghorn, now reaching for the sizeable pat of butter that resides neatly on the table. He digs his knife in, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the butter has now been contaminated by stray breadcrumbs. "You disagree in that this Nobody's lover should remain unaware of his demise?" 

"I never said anything of the sort. There is no name on the letters, by which to identify the woman?" 

Mr. Tulkinghorn is now giving a repeat performance of his prior treatment of the bread, smearing the butter with a sort of slow aggression that makes Lady Dedlock take another sip of tea for want of something to do with her hands. 

"O, there might have been a name," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn. "My memory fails at the present." 

Lady Dedlock highly doubts this, but she is too busy watching the in and out movement of his knife—coating itself with butter melted from the warmth of the bread as it slips in and out the crevice he's carved—to express her opinion. 

"Of course," comments Mr. Tulkinghorn, glancing down at his lap to where his Lady's eyes are riveted, "I have the letters in my possession. I could very easily go and check. Check the name, that is. On the letters. If you'd care to know." He digs into the bread harshly, punctuating the movement with a small twist that presses the insides against the crust and smashes drops of creamy, white butter into the insides. "I haven't yet decided what I plan to do with these letters, these personal items of this mysterious lodger of Mr. Krook's." (Butter running down the blade.) "What would you do, were you in my position?" 

He meets Lady Dedlock's eye. 

"Persist in treating the bread that way and it'll break the handle off your knife," says Lady Dedlock quietly, giving Mr. Tulkinghorn a piercing stare that could send a streak of frost crackling up the window pane on the other side of the room. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn lowers the plate to his lap while his palm rubs sweat into the silver of the utensil. "I highly doubt it," he replies after a moment, but then stays silent, watching his lady over the rim of his cup as he sips his tea. 

  
  
  
  


**4\. Esther's Narrative**

There is an incident I almost hesitate the relate here, as its relevance to my story is debatable at best, but I find myself coming back to it again and again and I believe that if I put it into words it will perhaps trouble me less. 

I found myself unable to sleep one night, for no discernable reason as far as I could tell, and as such, I was inclined to lay awake in bed for some uncountable number of hours. The house was quiet, my darling fast asleep in her own bed. I thought it unworthy to disturb so fragile a slumber—Richard's money troubles had been increasing daily at this point—so I resigned myself to wandering through the darkened house alone. 

Upon passing through the kitchen, and seeing that there was still some milk left in the day's bottle, I decided to prepare a warm glass in the hopes of bringing about sleep. I recalled it being a remedy that often worked in my childhood days, and hoped that its effects had not altered any through the years. 

I sat there at the table with my drink, thinking the house to be asleep, so you can quite imagine my surprise when Mr. Skimpole—he had stopped in for another unannounced visit—joined me when I was not yet halfway done. 

"Ah! Miss Summerson!" he called out gaily, as if it were a perfectly natural thing to be wandering about the house in the dead of night. I modestly pulled my dressing gown tighter around my body before answering. "Is sleep eluding you, my dear?" he asked me, taking a small package of biscuits form one of the cupboards. "I often find myself unable to sleep through the night, for I am a child! And what do children know of the importance of good sleeping habits? Why, there are times when I hardly sleep at all, only to spend the afternoon engaged in a pleasant nap. Much like a baby might do, who wakes his parents at night with periodic fits of wailing." 

He informed me of all this while taking biscuit after biscuit from the package and eating each one whole. I also thought that he might have been wearing one of my guardian's dressing gowns, but Mr. Skimpole often came to stay with us quite unprepared and without any additional clothing, which gave me no reason to enquire further into the matter. The other reason was that I thought I could feel the effects of the milk beginning to take hold, and I wished not to ensnare myself in conversation whose end, very possibly, might not have been near. 

I was just about to make my excuses and return to bed when Mr. Skimpole seated himself at the table and re-engaged me in his monologue. "I often come down here when I stay here—the first here referring to the kitchen and the second here referring to the house, of course. Did you know that? Yes, and I often come down for the sole purpose of having a snack late at night, when I shouldn't be eating at all." At this point he paused to consume yet another biscuit. "You see? I need to be told when to eat and when eating is quite inappropriate, such as now. So very much like the disobediant child that I am! I should be scolded. Would you like one, my dear?" he asked, offering me one of our biscuits. 

I shook my head. 

"No," he agreed. "For you have successfully advanced from your immature days, and you know that biscuits and things of that nature have their time and place. And while this is the right place, it is certainly not the time." 

"I'm sorry that you're unable to sleep, Mr. Skimpole," I told him, attempting to politely steer the conversation to an end. 

"It's of no matter," he lamented cheerfully. "I can sleep whenever I choose, for a child has no sense of time. And I am, as you know, a child." 

I told him that I did know. 

"As I have said, I often wander the house at night when I am a guest here. I find, more often than not, that I seem to work up an appetite after certain nightly activities." When I asked him what he meant, he ate another biscuit as a reply. "Jarndyce, on the other hand, could sleep through a storm." 

I thought it a peculiar thing to say about my guardian, but I did not ask him what he meant by it, as I still rather wished to remove myself from the conversation altogether. 

I often wondered why my guardian put up with such a friend as Mr. Skimpole, and what common interests they could possibly share to justify such a friendship. In the end I always assumed that it was something I simply could not see, or understand. Still, it felt unaccountably peculiar that Mr. Skimpole should comment on my guardian's sleeping habits, and I thought it best at the time to remove the thought from my mind altogether. 

Mr. Skimpole tugged the sash of his gown tighter and bowed his head apologetically. "Forgive me, Miss Summerson, for having to see me in such a state. But as you well know, a child feels no trace of embarrassment for such things." 

I chose not to comment on this and instead busied myself with washing out my glass and putting it away. I then took the break in his monologue to excuse myself for the night, as I was sure the milk was beginning to have some effect. He told me that he would be pleased to see me at breakfast tomorrow, and I responded that I certainly returned the sentiment. 

But I was not halfway through the door leading back to the hallway when I had my second unexpected encounter of the night. It was my guardian, up and about at such an hour! 

Rather taken by surprised, I stepped back and drew my hand to my neck in shock. 

"Esther!" said my guardian, with a sort of worn look about him. "Little woman, what are you doing up at this hour?" 

He too was in a dressing gown, feet bare inside his slippers. 

"I was having difficulty sleeping," I told him. "I came down for some warm milk." I hesitated to ask why _he_ was awake, though he ended up saving me the trouble by explaining himself—rather nervously, I should say! 

"I came down to see where Harold—ah, Mr. Skimpole, that is—had gone. Ah, that is—" My guardian scratched at the back of his neck in a way I thought very uncharacteristic of him. 

He did not get to finish whatever he meant to clarify, however, for it was at this point that Mr. Skimpole's voice rang out from the kitchen. 

"Jarndyce? Jarndyce, old man!" said Mr. Skimpole, approaching us cheerfully. "I was just coming back. No need to organize a search party. It is something a child would need. Of course, I am a child! So perhaps the searchlights were needed after all!" At this he laughed and placed his hand on my guardian's shoulder. "But here I am! Shall we return?" 

My guardian looked back at me with an expression on his face that I could not quite pin down at the time. Something akin to embarrassment, perhaps, or shame. I did not know, and to this day I am not certain, though I have my theories. I never spoke of it with my guardian and he never brought it up. 

Let it be enough to say that, even after the milk, I did not sleep very well that night. 

  
  
  
  


**5\. A Promise Fulfilled**

Chancery Lane, London. Allan Woodcourt visits Symond's Inn more and more frequently as Richard's health begins to fail him—or to state the truth of the matter, appears to be failing him. As far as Allan's medical opinion can detect, there is nothing physically wrong with the man. His temperature is normal, his breathing is steady; and yet, there is some crippling force about him nonetheless. The light in his eyes has dulled so gradually as to almost completely escape notice, until Allan recalls the first time they met, and how much brighter Richard seemed at the time. It is as if the ailment is internal, a slow degradation of soul and spirit being consumed from the inside out. 

Richard seems to live for Allan's visits, immediately pushing away his books when Allan's figure appears in the doorway, or lifting his head from the sofa cushions at the sound of Allan's voice. Oftentimes, when Richard is dozing lightly on the sofa, Allan merely stands close by and watches the rise and fall of his chest, listens to the soft wheeze of his breathing as the air rushes past his lips. Richard often awakens so suddenly that Allan is almost of the mind that he must sense his presence. 

"Woodcourt!" Richard will exclaim, with such genuine surprise and contentedness that it is as if he had been dreaming about the man only moments before. 

Richard has even taken to enquiring about Allan when he is not around, to which Ada always replies, "He will be here shortly, no doubt," and gives him her most loving of lovely smiles. 

When Allan is invited for dinner, the three of them—he and Richard and Ada (and sometimes Esther, his love, if she is also present)—sit around the piano together while Ada plays through Richard's favorite songs. And often after that, Allan and Richard go for a walk together along the bridge just outside the apartment. 

"Quite soothing," Richard comments absently as they pass through the streets, arm and arm. "To have such a friend as you, Woodcourt,"—Richard says this every time, never failing in routine—"Where would a man such as me be without you?" 

Allan only pulls Richard's arm tighter through his own, and if no one else is present at the time, Richard lays a kiss upon Allan's cheek as the city settles into dusk, flashing dull and gray over the cold, indifferent London water that obliges to look the other way. 

Ada, for all that she loves Richard, and for all that she knows Richard loves her, understands that Allan Woodcourt can draw Richard from his depression in ways that she cannot. And so when Allan comes by, Ada often takes a walk herself, or makes plans to see Esther, so that Richard and Allan may be alone together, and so that no one may ever accuse her of interfering with her husband's recovery. 

Allan does not believe that Ada is completely aware of the exact depth of their bond, and because of that there are times when he feels as if their behavior is the most reprehensible thing on earth. But these sentiments always come just before Richard looks at him with that spark of life in his eyes, the gleam of innocent and almost childish light just visible behind the shade that is his face. Allan recalls his promise to Esther—to watch over Richard, to be his friend—but admits that it is so much deeper than all of that now. He has taken an oath of trust and he vows to keep it, but the interpretation is something that is all their own. 

For moments at a time, Richard's soul is free, his spirit released from the cold, unfeeling imprisonment of Chancery. Allan can sense the heat underneath his soft skin—proof that there is still life in there yet—as he slips Richard's trousers down past his hips. 

Richard closes his eyes as Allan caresses his skin; ridge of ribcage, curve of hip, dip of collarbone. Allan runs his fingers over the endless planes and angles that are Richard's body, like a blind man touching a lover's face to assure himself that it can be no one else but her. Worshipping, caressing, convincing; each sensation is justified if it gives Richard his reprieve. 

Richard's fingers thread through the hair that is not his wife's with a desperation that he too often has to withhold, gently tugging at the soft, silken strands as Allan kneels before the sofa and takes him in his mouth. When Allan glances up, Richard's head is back against the cushions, and his cheeks have such color in them, such life, that he defies anyone to suspect the man were even ailing at all. 

The intimacy is like nothing Allan has ever experienced; not with a woman and certainly not with a man. The touch and taste and smell are sensations that are all distinctly Richard; faintly recalled as they laugh over dinner, stirred when Richard's lips brush his cheek, comfortingly familiar, and (he thinks with the subtlest hints of guilt and shame) intensely arousing when he once again finds himself in his position before the sofa. 

Richard reaches down and blindly covers Allan's hand with his own, worked-to-the-bone fingers clutching at what is real and there in front of him—and with a choked gasp he shudders and falls into a state of lifeless, livened contentedness. 

Allan settles at Richard's side, following the beckon of the hand at his wrist. Richard draws him up and presses his mouth against Allan's—it is the only time they ever truly kiss—tasting his own seed in the wet corners of Allan's lips. "A piece of myself returned to me," Richard whispers against his lips, so serenely and so very much unlike Richard that there are times when Allan doesn't believe he hears it. Yet when he draws back to look into Richard's eyes there is a glow that, in the moments before it has already begun to fade, convinces Allan that his role in Richard's short-lived freedom could not possibly be imagined. 

There is no Chancery in the afternoons they spend lounging in each other's company. There is no Mr. Vholes, no Ada, no London. The name Jarndyce does not exist in their world, and Richard is content to rest his head upon Allan's chest, humming softly to himself while Allan traces patterns through his hair. 

When Allan returns day after day only to find Richard more disturbed and listless than when he saw him last, it troubles him down to his very soul. Richard, growing ever paler and duller by the moment, his once-handsome face now thin and troubled. He smiles at Allan from his desk, straightening his back as he greets him; always "Woodcourt," never "Allan." 

Allan watches as the fight behind his eyes fades with every passing day, his skin growing colder under his fingertips as if the preoccupations of Richard's mind thrive on the very energy with which he clings to life. They take their evening walks along the bridge, arm and arm, but when Allan hears the chimes of a distant clock it is as if they are singing to him, "It's not enough."


End file.
